


Lesson Learning

by squidmemesinc



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Dom/sub overtones, Other, SPOILERS I THINK FOR DOTL, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Unrequited Crush, bc thats exactly what this is, i think, im amused that overlord/tarn sort of is a tag, pre-DJD Tarn, wow i kind of have no idea how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 05:25:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11662503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidmemesinc/pseuds/squidmemesinc
Summary: Megatron keeps his gaze level with Overlord’s for a long, tense moment, then he smiles. “Perhaps the two of you need to be reeducated on how to follow my orders, under my supervision. We’ll start now. Continue.”Or, Megatron punishes Damus and Overlord for getting frisky outside his office by making them get friskyinsidehis office.





	Lesson Learning

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my head (cough) for two weeks and now that I've written it I still don't think I'm over it. I said something to Ziggy like, "What's better than Tarn getting what he wants? Tarn almost getting what he wants, but not really." Idk, it's a mixed lot for him here. Also, Overlord the randy teenage murderer is there for all the same reasons, in a sort of background role (but he has a foreground role in my heart).
> 
> Enjoy!? If that's a thing you're into. I'm obviously not going to judge.
> 
> (P.S. DAMUS = TARN I READ THE WIKI PAGE TO CHEAT)

Slagging spawn of a _fragging_ _pit_.

Overlord’s fingers don’t stop tracing circles over his panel even as they both stare up at Megatron, who’s finally opened his door, ready for—well, one of them. Damus wants to glue his cannons straight against Overlord’s spark and unload, but he can’t bring himself to do much more than shove Overlord off him. If Overlord had been a smaller mech, he might have toppled out of his chair, but unfortunately he’s about as big as they come, and Damus’ shove hardly does more than dislodge his hands from around Damus’ frame.

Damus kicks his vocalizer out of idle as soon as he realizes what’s happening and scrambles to his feet. “Lord Megatron, I—”

Megatron abruptly shuts the door on the both of them.

Overlord laughs.

“Shut up,” Damus says, clenching his fists. “This is your fault.”

“What’s my fault? He didn’t even do anything. Do you think we embarrassed him?” There’s a smug smile on his preposterous lips.

Damus can’t even bring himself to pace, to transform, to do anything. He stays rooted to the spot for a moment before collapsing into his chair and leaning away from Overlord, hoping to discourage any further foolishness by a bit of distance. “I can’t believe you’re idiotic enough to make advances towards me while we are both waiting for an appointment with him.”

“That’s what he gets for double-booking,” Overlord shrugs, easing into the movement to stretch his arms up over his head and hook one down around Damus, who instantly shoves it off.

“Stop!” Damus is distracted, trying to formulate his apology to Megatron in his processor. He’s being overrun by shame, for ever giving into Overlord’s advances in the first place, for thinking him as good a substitute as he’d ever get, at least in physical nature, as if he deserved such a thing for himself. As if Megatron deserved to be compared to anyone. This impression he’s just given their leader is of no consequence to Overlord—Damus is sure that he is not held in especially high regard except for his capacity to barrel his way through any obstacles with graceless physical force—but for Damus? He’s spent hundreds of thousands of years trying to present himself as one worthy of Megatron’s attention.

And now he’s been caught _fraternizing_ with Overlord outside of Megatron’s office by Megatron himself. Damus caught a brief glimpse of his face, but even he, who’s put so much effort into the act, couldn’t quite decipher what his expression meant. Nothing good, surely.

Overlord seems unbothered by everything except Damus’ standoffishness. “You were a lot more fun at Grindcore. Is that why you’re being reassigned?” He leans in close to Damus. “Is someone losing his touch?”

“Yes, _someone_ is,” Damus says icily, staring dead-on at Overlord, who smiles placidly and leans back.

The door opens again. Damus straightens up, and Overlord looks up with an expression of simple curiosity and inappropriately feigned innocence. Megatron stands before them once again. “Enter,” he says.

Damus stands, then hesitates. “Which of us were you speaking to, Lord Megatron?” he says, attempting to mask the humiliation in his voice and failing by the regrettable event of having to ask this question.

“Both of you,” Megatron clarifies, and Damus thinks he notices him glare a little harder at Overlord, who only now swings himself to his feet and saunters in after him.

Entering the office, Damus stalls, seeming to remember the layout being a bit different the last time he was here. At least, there might have been more furniture than just the desk. Megatron stands away from it when they enter; it appears more utilitarian than Damus remembered as well. He doesn’t see anything on it. The room is eerily devoid of decoration or effect.

“Sit,” Megatron says, gesturing to the single piece of furniture.

“My Lord...?” Damus questions, but Overlord heaves himself onto the slab and Megatron stares intently at him, so he does the same, perching uncomfortably next to the Phase Sixer, now adding an extra level of shame to his considerable amount that he hesitated to obey an order when even Overlord was able to follow the instruction. He resolves to pull himself out of this unfitting funk and straightens himself. His feet dangle strangely off the edge, while Overlord’s make contact with the ground as if it were a regular chair. His field is relaxed enough to brush against Damus, while Megatron might not realize, but Damus keeps his composure.

“You were instructed to wait for me outside my office,” Megatron says, pacing forward towards the desk so that the advantage he has over Damus’ height is particularly apparent to him. He meets his leader’s gaze unflinchingly, not daring to look away even behind the shield of his mask. Overlord smiles at his address but says nothing. “You were not given permission to _fondle_ each other during your appointment with me. Have you lost sight of your priorities? Or have you forgotten what designated leisure time is for, and what my time is worth?”

This seems to be directed at Overlord and not Damus, so he bites back a prostrating response he’s been forming since they were out in the hall and waits for what he’s sure will be a very unsatisfying answer.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, My Liege, I am easily bored. Perhaps if you were a bit more punctual... I believe I had leisure time scheduled for after this, and we spent quite a bit of it waiting out in the hall.”

Damus hopes Megatron kills Overlord first so he can watch.

Megatron, however, does not physically react in the slightest, and Damus feels Overlord’s field prickle irritably, making his own plating itch. Megatron keeps his gaze level with Overlord’s for a long, tense moment, then he smiles. “Perhaps the two of you need to be reeducated on how to follow my orders, under my supervision. We’ll start now. Continue.”

This time, Overlord doesn’t have a clever response. “My Lord?”

“You were so eager to make the most of your leisure time,” Megatron says, turning around and pacing away from the desk. “Consider this to double as leisure time and productive self-betterment.”

Damus is about to say something when Megatron fixes him with a stare that says ‘Yes, you too,’ and he goes quiet, filling with a molten sense of dread. He can’t bring himself to look at Overlord, which doesn’t end up mattering, because the larger mech is tugging him in closer. He braces a hand against Overlord’s thigh as his preposterous lips press against the treads on his shoulder. Megatron turns and stares straight into his spark.

“Damus,” he says, “Perhaps you’d be a bit more comfortable if you weren’t hanging off the edge of the desk?” The suggestion offered is an act, that he isn’t also being punished for Overlord’s transgressions, but of course he is. Of course Megatron knows what he wants—what they both want, and why they’ve gone after each other, and he’s reveling in knowing he doesn’t have to give it to either of them. And again, the full effect of it doesn’t quite reach Overlord, because even if he doesn’t get what he wants, at least he can be a part in Damus’ displeasure, which is always the bottom line for him.

Damus grits his denta behind the mask. He refuses to be at the bottom of this food chain. He’s willing to accept his place below Megatron, of course, but he’ll aim for the tie if that’s an option. Without saying a word, he gracefully climbs into Overlord’s lap, facing their leader, spreading his legs out over his massive thighs and braces his back against his chest, reaching an arm to curl up around Overlord’s neck, pulling him into his own.

“See, this is what I was talking about,” Overlord croons at him, kissing at the side of his helm in a false saccharine show of affection meant to slight both Damus and Megatron. “This is Fun Damus.” His hands roam over Damus’ abdominal plating, making the different pieces shift subtly as he inches towards Damus’ panels again.

“Something to say, Overlord?” Megatron is solid, still, and severe in front of him.

Damus feels the rush of static energy run up his spinal strut at Overlord’s glee. “No, Lord Megatron,” he says.

“I thought not.”

Damus keeps quiet in a way he imagines is obedient, but is melting down from the focused gaze of their leader on his frame, displayed so lewdly before him. He hasn’t much moved from the position he’d eased himself into, but when Overlord’s fingers make their way down to the seams of his valve panel, he knows he has to open it. He releases a soft vent from his lips at the same time as the panel clicks back, hoping to disguise the sound in the otherwise quiet room, but it feels tangible where it hangs in the air.

The lips of his valve glisten in the dim lighting of the room. Overlord’s fingers prod at them, digging in to spread them open to reveal the beading insides to Megatron. Damus shivers gently against Overlord’s frame as he holds him open. Overlord is inviting Megatron to participate as if Damus is a gift he’s brought him, a piece of flesh to devour or destroy however he sees fit, whether it’s through his own means or through Overlord as a tool. Damus makes himself stare directly at Megatron, not moving any other way, proving himself subservient, loyal to Megatron, willing to obey orders even when Overlord is still intent on usurping his command.

“I did tell you to continue, did I not?” Megatron says, giving Damus a bit of relief.

“In the interest of self-betterment, I’ve opted to try to slow my preferred pace,” Overlord quips, flicking his thumb against Damus’ charged node and making him twitch.

Megatron strides forward again as Overlord continues to circle his fingers around the slick opening of Damus’ valve without penetrating him. “I didn’t give you permission to improvise,” he says sharply, not even watching as Damus confirms that Overlord screws two fingers into his slick, throbbing valve. He can’t help turning his head away slightly, overwhelmed by the sensation of Overlord’s fingers moving deep in against his nodes and Megatron’s presence up against him. He could almost imagine—but he wouldn’t. He grips Overlord’s unbreakable thigh with a strength that would damage any other mech.

Megatron’s hand comes out to tip him back towards him by just the edge of his mask, and he feels a ripple as Overlord’s field responds to Damus’ valve clenching hard around his fingers hard enough to slow their thrusting. “As for you, Damus, I think I need a clearer picture to make sure your resolve isn’t slipping.”

His fingers brush against the clasp on Damus’ mask, and reluctantly, Damus nods. “O-Of course, Lord Megatron,” he says, feeling a sickening thrill right to his fuel pump to say the name even adjacent to him while undergoing such stimulus. The mask slides out of its tracks, and the humid air in the room feels cool against his face. Damus struggles to keep his mouth closed as Overlord works a third finger into his sopping valve, trying to present some semblance of composure, but finding it impossible. Overlord’s field grits static against his own pulse of vulnerable energy, and he even feels the composed tension of Megatron from the distance away that he is, until he retreats again.

“No need to restrain yourselves,” Megatron says coolly, his eyes fixed away from the sloshing mess of Overlord plunging in and out of Damus’ quaking form. “It feels good, doesn’t it? You’re enjoying this.” Megatron is speaking directly into Damus’ spark, completely convicted of his words despite presenting them as a question. He holds his fantasy over him, just out of reach, but close enough that Damus’ spark thrums with want. He can’t help it—he moans, gasps as Overlord’s fingers jostle his whole frame with the lewd, aggressive way they’re servicing him. Lubricant is leaking over his thighs, over Overlord’s as well, down onto the table in a messy pool.

“Lord Megatron, may I take him?” Overlord pants into Damus’ ear, grinding his hips up against his aft and keep his eyes peeked over Damus’ helm to make a more formal request of their leader.

Megatron knows he’s being baited to respond to this unusually polite request. He’s followed all the rules and can’t reasonably be denied by Megatron himself, so of course he defers. “Damus, answer him.”

Damus squeezes his calipers around Overlord’s thick fingers, focusing on Megatron’s face and shoulders, and it doesn’t take too much imagination to rearrange the room into a more favorable position. “Frag me,” he says, acutely aware of Megatron’s optics taking in the exact form of his lips as he says the words.

Overlord’s fingers slide out of him and his spike pressurizes between his legs, filling most of the space. Damus moans again, grinding his node down against this solid, thick anchor while keeping an eye on Megatron. He grips Overlord’s shoulder as the bigger mech lifts his hips with one hand and uses the other to poise his spike at the entrance of his valve. They hold for a moment until Megatron gives a quiet nod, and Overlord’s spike slides straight into him when he drops him.

It’s pleasantly agonizing, the ache as his calipers are thrust to their maximum setting which still doesn’t feel to be quite enough stretch, running the entire length of his valve. Damus’ ceiling node screams sensation, unable to sort if it’s pleasure or pain at the initial entrance. Their position guarantees a repeat of the feeling with each of Overlord’s forceful thrusts, which grant Damus no control. His frame is glued to Overlord’s, but both of their optics are on Megatron’s, and each mech is unaware of the distinct differences between their forms and the object of their desires. Damus has been resisting this indulgence, but it feels almost a more fitting punishment to let Megatron display what he can’t have right in front of him, keeping his composed distance across the room as he does nothing but watch, face impassive.

“Slowly,” Megatron commands. Damus swears he hears the reluctant creak of Overlord’s spark as he brakes and forces himself to reign in his eagerness. His hands are on Damus’ thighs, guiding him up and down over his thick spike, but now with a bit more composure. This only allows Damus to feel the glide of him sliding through his taut form. His calipers twitch in confusion, trying to squeeze in around the space only to be bullied apart again, and pleasure coils in Damus’ core. He wants so desperately to offline his optics and imagine he can’t see Megatron in front of him, but rather feel him behind him, and surely this is clear on his face as he resists the temptation. Lines of Megatron’s poetry cycle unbidden through his processor, something poignant and appropriate to wanting something one cannot have, but Damus quickly clears the addresses of the unwanted data lest he mention it aloud. His venting is coming out harsh and the room is loud now with the sounds of fluids and fans.

Damus can feel Overlord’s focus on Megatron as well, intent on exactly one bot in this room, and it’s not the one he’s got his spike drilled into. His field is tight, circling with focus and directed lust, and though Damus bears the brunt of it, he can’t bring himself to care either, being much in the same position. His valve is throbbing wildly, and with each prolonged second he feels continuously baffled that his pleasure hasn’t broken a peak yet.

It’s a relief and not much of a surprise that he’s able to obey when Megatron addresses them. “Overload, now,” he says, and they do, locking their equipment together in frenzied motions that surge through the pain to bliss. Damus’ claws scrape against Overlord’s thighs, and Overlord’s fingers crush the plating around his own enough to merit some fresh repairs, but they do overload, together, at their leader’s command, for whatever satisfaction it might bring him.

When it’s done, Megatron issues no further instruction, watching with satisfaction as Damus wriggles out of Overlord’s limp grasp and they disengage themselves, dripping mess everywhere. Damus stands on shaking legs and leans against the desk, venting hard and putting a hand up to his denta to ghost hot air through the gaps in his fingers.

“Overlord, you are excused. Get cleaned up, and wait in the hall,” Megatron says.

Damus gets a glimpse of the Phase Sixer as he does a double take, and feels an overwhelming wash of satisfaction that even after he somewhat successfully complied to Megatron’s whims, he’s being dismissed. Overlord grits out a, “Yes, Lord Megatron” as he makes his exit.

But the fact remains that Damus doesn’t know what’s in store for himself, and he ponders this during the brief moment that Overlord stomps out of the room. He’d thought Megatron would be pleased with his work at Grindcore, but he now finds himself skimming through Towards Peace in an attempt to either confirm or dissuade himself, to find form or fault with his work and quickly come up with ways he might remedy any areas needing improvement.

He’s unable to do so before Megatron addresses him. “Damus.”

“Yes, Lord Megatron,” Damus replies automatically, straightening up and closing his interface panel despite the unpleasant mess and the way his valve flutters as he does so. He’d much rather have his mask back, but Megatron has taken it, and is in fact examining it now.

“I have a new assignment for you,” he says. “You have done well, and you should be pleased. Given your new status, it would perhaps be in your best interests to extricate yourself from further intimate involvement with Overlord.”

Damus can’t even bring himself to cringe at Megatron’s implication that he might bear any sort of attachment to Overlord to regret breaking off contact completely. His processor is swimming with the praise he’s been given, and the buzz of self repairs from his overzealous interfacing session. It’s a wonder he can even stand right now, between the physical and mental stimulation he’s so recently received. “Yes, My Lord. Thank you, My Lord.”

“I’ll give you the details at a later date when you are in a better state, but you will be forming a special team and working directly under me to ensure loyalty to the Decepticon cause. And you will adopt a new name. You will be known as ‘Tarn’ from this point on.”

Tarn. Megatron’s origin. “Yes, My Lord,” is all he can muster as a response.

“Good. You are dismissed, then, Tarn.”

Megatron hands him back his mask, which Tarn examines himself before sliding it back into place and bowing. “I won’t disappoint you, Lord Megatron.”


End file.
